


Little Wings

by dismalzelenka



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Liminality
Genre: Blood, Dragon Age RP, Existential Angst, Gen, Homebrew Campaign Setting, Mentions of Death, Rivain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-10-12 10:07:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17465495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dismalzelenka/pseuds/dismalzelenka
Summary: In the aftermath of bloodshed and terror, Yarah comes to grips with a strange new reality.





	Little Wings

The smoke settled. The dust cleared. The room was _too_ quiet. Smashed pieces of wood littered the floor among overturned tables and bodies, _spirits_ , so many bodies. Yarah tucked herself against the inside of the bar and stuffed a fist in her mouth to muffle the whimper the grisly sight drew from her lungs. Blood and ichor splattered the floor in a viscous brown mixture that had finally begun to congeal together in lumpy puddles across the wooden slats of the tavern floor.

_Breathe, sweet thing. They can't hurt you anymore._

Miss Habibi’s voice echoed in her head. Yarah closed her eyes and imagined wild black hair and brown skin, golden piercings and even more golden eyes, a thick necklace of beads and bone, head held high in every situation. She could hear the rustle of the blue scarf around the woman’s head as practiced hands wrenched two perfectly identical knives from a dead man's chest with calculated precision.

_See this part here? Sever it, and he bleeds out in thirty seconds. Look, try to find it._

The hilt of Miss Habibi’s knife was warm in her hand as scarred brown fingers guided her grip against the dead man's inner thigh. Silver metal sliced through skin—was human flesh really so thin and fragile?—and blood leaked slowly from the wound, blood the color of rust and decay and death.

_Of course, he doesn't have a heart beating to pump it out faster right now, so you'll just have to trust me. I'll bring some dummies on my ship next time I drop anchor here and we can practice some more, how does that sound?_

It had seemed fun and fascinating then. The daggers in her hands had felt _right._ The idea of watching the life bleed from the eyes of someone determined to violate her had filled her with a heady rush of power she could hardly contain.

It was all so different when she was actually the reason someone's spark flickered out of existence. It didn't matter then, whether the woman had an ill thought in her head or not. It only mattered that Faeven's dagger in her own hands was what stopped this stranger's heart, and the ache inside that accompanied that, well.

Right now it felt as though the gods themselves were tearing her apart limb from limb, organ from organ, until all the broken pieces of herself were strewn across the floor with the rest of the blood and destruction.

“Oh, _no_ , little flower, what are you doing here?”

Another familiar voice. The faint rustle of nondescript brown robes, the scent of honey and cedar and smoke, soft and gentle hands on her shoulders, on her waist, scooping her up into arms that spoke of safety.

“Felix,” she whimpered. “I didn't mean to do it, I swear.”

“Didn't mean what, butterfly?” He was all soft silver hair, gentle pink eyes, pale brow furrowed in concern as he balanced her on his hip and met her gaze.

_I killed her. I hit her with the knife and watched her die. It was my fault and her family will never see her again and I_ didn't mean it I swear—

“Oh, butterfly, no, sweet girl, little wildflower, look at me.” His fingers were gentle against her face when he grasped her chin as she turned away. Gods. Had she said those things _out loud_ …?

“I didn't mean it,” she repeated in a muffled whisper when she buried her face against the scratchy brown fabric at his neck. “I didn't mean it, I didn't mean it.”

“I know, sweet girl, I know,” he murmured, clutching her to his chest and rubbing gentle circles in her back as she sobbed into his robes. “Everything will be alright. I swear to you.” He set her down and crouched to meet her eyes again. “First, we have to help your friends. They're alive but very sick. Do you trust me?”

Yarah nodded, afraid to speak again lest more of her pain find wings and scramble their way through her lungs and claw their way out through a throat still raw from screaming.

He pointed at Micah, collapsed on the floor in a heap, unruly blonde curls piled around her face. Her chest lifted and fell slightly with shallow breaths. “Take this,” he instructed, shoving a pile of rope into her hands. “Start with her and bind her hands.”

Yarah looked up, wide eyed. Fear thumped anew in her chest. “I thought we were helping them?”

Felix grasped her hands and ran his thumbs over her knuckles, a serene smile on his face. “They are very sick right now, little flower. They may wake up and try to hurt you before we can bring them to a place where they can rest and recover. It's for their own good. Do you trust me?”

There it was, that question again, and somehow it did little to dislodge the seed of unease that had  firmly planted itself inside her soul. But…this was Felix. He was her protector, her friend, her mentor. He lived in a glass house with herbs and flowers, he gave her a bed in his shop every night and fed her and made potions to ease people's pain while asking for nothing in return. He was the man of many titles, all of them benevolent: Apothecary, Doctor, Magician.

Felix was many things, but above all he had always been unflinchingly, unquestionably _good._

So why did her heart feel as though it was pounding against her ribcage like a prisoner begging a locked door for the gift of freedom?

She chewed on her lip, ignored the ache in her chest and the weight in her stomach, and began wrapping the rope around Micah’s wrists.

“Did you…did you happen to see where Maria and Grayson went?” he asked. His voice wavered with uncharacteristic hesitancy.

Yarah shook her head. She had almost forgotten about Grayson and Maria in the chaos, but now she furrowed her brows and chewed on her lip and tried to remember. There had been glowing, panicking, screaming. Grayson, yelling about something she didn't understand, Maria trapped in a haze of purple light in the middle of the floor. Faeven screaming words in a language she didn't know, Micah demanding explanations while Miss Aurelia and the quiet, reclusive elf and the strange man with a sword held the rest of their attackers at bay.

What had happened after? She closed her eyes and tried to recall, but the only thing she drew from her head was a splitting headache and a faint ringing in her ears.

“I don't know, Felix, I'm sorry,” she mumbled.

 “Oh, butterfly, don't worry so,” he said softly, kneeling again to cup her shoulders in his hands. “Trust me, and everything will be alright.”

She wasn't sure if she believed that, but right now, it was all she had.

**Author's Note:**

> faeven im so sorry


End file.
